


burnt & tied up

by tilthesundies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Louis in Lingerie, M/M, Non AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 00:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18767782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilthesundies/pseuds/tilthesundies
Summary: Come to the show tonight,Harry told him. Begged him. Pleaded with him.Louis isn’t doing this for him.





	burnt & tied up

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry this isn’t anything new-ish, though this might be new to some of you! I wanted to post something while I’m working on The Big One.

Louis’s squealing in the bathtub, a hand over his mouth and hunched over, and a bottle of this hotel’s best wine in his other hand. He doesn’t know what’s funny; Harry’s sitting on the rug outside of the tub, but he’s leaning forward, too, with a hand gripping the ledge, and he’s belly laughing. He thinks it started when Harry kept stumbling over his words, failing to string together a coherent sentence.

They’re very pissed.

“Did I ever tell you,” Harry says, Louis giggling softly against the back of his hand, “about the time that Mitch thought it would be funny to replace all my briefs with lace thongs?”

Louis eyes him.

He’s still giggling, but, slowly, it fades, and he becomes quiet.

“No,” he says. “When was this?”

Harry hums, scrunching up one side of his face.

“Like . . . ,” he trails off. He wanders off in thought for so long, Louis fears he might have to bring him back down to Earth. “Earlier today.”

Louis rolls his eyes, scoffing.

“No wonder I haven’t heard it,” he mumbles. “So? What about it?”

Harry shrugs.

“Nothing, I guess,” he replies with a sluggish shrug, leaning forward to grab the bottle of wine from Louis’s hand. He throws his head back, baring the expanse of his throat. Louis’s eyes fixate on it; on the alcohol that visibly makes it way down taut muscles and tendons against his pale complexion. Louis blinks a few times, averting his drunken gaze with a thick swallow. “I just think it’s weird. You know? On me. I think it looks beautiful on other men, but it’s not for me, personally. Now, I have to go commando.”

Louis takes a second to blink again, then tilts his head, looking at Harry.

“Mate, you forego pants all the time,” he says.

“I know, but he completely took away the absolute freedom of my choice to do so,” Harry explains.

Louis makes a face.

“You’re such an Aquarius,” he says.

Harry laughs.

It echoes in his head happily, dancing alongside _I think it looks beautiful on other men._

Louis blinks, again, and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “Do you—” He has to keep pushing the words up his tongue to get them out. “Do you, um, think they’d look weird on me?”

Face blank, Harry blinks.

Louis tries again.

“Like. I’ve never worn any before, but—I’ve thought about it.”

They’re best friends; they’re honest like this.

Harry licks his wet, reddened bottom lip, gazing at Louis more directly, something warmer creeping into his irises and digging into the centre of Louis. “You should,” he says, then tips his head back to swallow more wine, but never disconnecting their gazes.

Louis’s brows rise, fingers slightly trembling.

“I should?” he echoes.

Looking away, removing the bottle from his lips, Harry shrugs. “If you want. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, if that’s the issue.”

Louis opens and closes his mouth several times, before looking away.

“Yeah,” he lies. “That’s it.”

Harry gets onto his knees, then, and clumsily climbs into the bathtub. Louis tries to make room, but Harry keeps him caged in, wedging himself between Louis’s legs and cupping Louis’s face in his hands. He leans down to press gentle kisses all over Louis’s face, and Louis just bashfully scrunches his nose, trying not to squirm or disrupt him.

Lastly, he kisses the tip of Louis’s nose, then pulls away, still cupping his face.

“Come on,” he urges softly, “come dance with me. I wanna show you my new moves.”

Louis tilts his head back, meeting his eye. “Aren’t you exhausted?”

He just watched Harry sing and dance for two hours on stage. He complained to Louis not even an hour ago his feet hurt and then promptly took off his shoes, now barefoot.

Harry gives him a smile.

“Absolutely not,” he says, and drops both hands from Louis’s face to reach down for his hands, intertwining their fingers. “Come on.”

Louis tries to sigh, but he’s smiling.

He lets Harry pull him up.

 

 

 

The next time Louis thinks about lingerie is when he’s passing Victoria’s Secret.

He’s in a small mall in America that’s fairly empty on a weekday afternoon. Normally, if it were crowded, he wouldn’t even take a second glance, no matter if something caught his eye. But he takes a pause. A pink, sheer shirt of sorts hangs on a display mannequin, and he glances over at it several times before courage leaks into his feet and carries him over.

He reaches for the tag, reading the _Lace-trim Babydoll_ words.

He doesn’t know what a babydoll is.

But he feels the material with his fingers, despite that, and his eyebrows rise at the unexpected softness. It’s not itchy, like how it looks, and it’s really . . . pretty.

His hand drops.

Louis starts to back away when his eyes catch a white version of the same babydoll. He thinks he almost prefers that, but it blurs as he looks back and forth, and he has to take a deep breath, looking away as he swallows. He looks around to see if anybody’s watching him, and notices a _Buy 3, Get 3 Free_ sign.

There’s a massive variety of multicoloured knickers both neatly and messily strewn about in white drawers.

He bites his bottom lip.

_I think it looks beautiful on other men._

Louis wanders over.

He feels like all eyes are on him. He feels so out of place and like he shouldn’t be here. Like he could crawl out of his own skin.

Maybe he should leave.

“Hi!” a feminine voice chirps to Louis’s right, spiking his heart rate. An uncomfortable rush of blood pools in his chest, trapping his heart, and he doesn’t know what to fucking do with his hands anymore as he meets her smiling face. “Are you finding everything okay?”

“Uh—” He feels like his panic is written on his face. “I’m good. Thank you. Just—just looking.”

He regrets those last two words.

“Okay, well, let me know if you need anything,” she says, then walks away.

Louis breathes in.

He’s going to have a quick look, then go, because he does not want to encounter that woman again, or any other one who works here.

The issue, however, is that he finds a lot of knickers that are tempting — that are made entirely of lace, or have only lace lining; are sheer, cut into unique styles, shapes, cover very little of his arse or all of it. Colours range from deep and rich to something soft and feminine, and they’re so . . . tempting; his fingers curl with indecision as he just stares at the variety he’s offered.

Perhaps, if he weren’t guaranteed an extra, free three, he’d be more inclined to pass it up.

But they’re screaming at him.

Louis, hesitantly, picks up a palm tree lace thong knicker he sees amongst the other lace knickers, and unfolds it. It’s black, and has this sheer, shiny foil look to it in different areas that feels like nylon.

It’s nice.

He plays with the strappy waist and the centre ring it’s attached to, to figure it out, and finds out the waist can be removed.

Interesting.

He keeps it in his hand, and picks up another black knicker. It’s similar to the one already in hand, centre ring and all, except it has two waist straps instead of one; and it has slight more coverage in the back, so, he holds onto it. He picks up a blush pink floral lace thong knicker, a rich red thong, a pretty sky blue knicker that looks comfortable to lounge in and another pair of it in pastel pink.

They’re heavy in his hands.

Louis neatly lines them on top of each other to form a pile, and folds them in half, trying to flatten them as much as possible in his grip. It’s difficult to be wholly discreet, but he thinks he manages an okay job enough where he can sort of comfortably walk back towards the babydolls he was looking at. No one’s paying him mind, either, so, his legs are easier to control.

There is just as much a variety as there is knickers.

An entire one made of silk speaks to Louis on some sort personal, enchanted level, but he’s not sure what to fucking do. Should he even buy one? How would it look on him? Should he try it on?

That’s probably what he _shouldn’t_ do.

The more time he spends in here, the more his nerves are driving him crazy. He chooses to risk it, picking up a random unlined sheer one that’s either a deep red or pink—he’s not sure, and, quite frankly, doesn’t care—and heads to the till. The person ringing his items up doesn’t look at him in any particularly strange way, but he still doesn’t look them in the eye. He just pays and leaves as quickly as possible.

 

 

 

 _Come to the show tonight_ , Harry told him. Begged him. Pleaded with him.

Louis would’ve never said no. He’s never told Harry no the near decade they’ve known each other, and he doesn’t think it’s wired in his DNA to deny him. But whenever Harry requests something from him, he always acts like Louis will. Part of it makes Louis laugh, as well as has the other part of him silently longing. Sometimes he does wish he could shut his devotion off for a moment, just to put it towards someone who could return it, just to see how it feels, but it’s never a lasting thought.

Sometimes nights are easier than others, to calm his yearning.

But tonight is fucking difficult.

After the show, Harry couldn’t keep his hands to himself; and Louis _still_ feels Harry’s imprints on every part of himself Harry touched. As soon as the curtains came down, he darted straight to the stairs and came running towards Louis, wrapping him up in his arms and lifting him off his feet.

“I am carrying _uncovered water_ in this cup, you dickhead,” Louis exclaimed, “you’re gonna make me spill it.”

“Don’t care,” Harry sang.

Louis could only loosely wrap his arms around Harry’s neck.

He actually carried Louis until they reached the very backstage where his black velvet curtains hung all over the walls and then laid him down on one of the settees with the most fragile approach.

Louis’s core melted like ice cream.

Now, he’s sitting on the edge of his hotel room bed, leg crossed over the other, and staring at his black bag packed with his clothes. He promised Harry he would come to his room in ten minutes, but he’s stuck in his head, anchored to the bed by the ghostly weight of Harry’s hand on his thigh. Harry kept rubbing it, dipping his fingers to his inner thigh repeatedly, when they were sat on the settee and, more importantly, right in front of his fucking band.

But each time his fingers crept so close, intimately, the vision of himself wearing one of the knickers he’d bought was so loud and colourful in his head. He wanted Harry to touch him like that without knowing what was underneath.

Louis uncrosses his leg and rubs the nail of his index finger as he stares at his bag.

He’s washed all the lingerie he bought a couple weeks ago, but he hasn’t worn any of it. He packs the same babydoll and blush thong and two others every time he has to travel somewhere, in case one of the nights he’s away he gets the courage to wear it.

He never does.

But tonight is the first time Louis’s _wanted_ to.

He lifts himself just an inch or so off the bed, hesitating briefly, before walking to kneel in front of his bag and lift it open. The lingerie pieces are buried at the very bottom, and he pulls them out. Louis stares at the babydoll, and the only encouragement he gets to stand and move into the bathroom is the memory of Harry removing his hand from his thigh to curl around his waist, pulling Louis right into his lap and wrapping his arms around his stomach to keep him from going anywhere.

Louis removes all his clothes in front of the wide mirror placed above the double sinks, and observes his bare body cautiously in bright, white lights. He gently sweeps his fingers across his flat stomach, some permanent markings painted under his ribcage; he thinks he’s got an all right body, but he really hopes what he sees now translates well underneath the babydoll.

He puts the thong on first.

It’s—comfortable.

Louis turns to the side, eyeing the floral lace that’s wrapped smoothly around his hips and curve of his bum. The blush colour complements his skin so well, but it digs weirdly in between his cheeks.

He tries to fix it.

He spends a long time just _gazing_ at himself; at the thong knicker and adjusting to the intrusiveness. Then, eventually, he convinces himself to stop stalling. His hands are trembling as he slips the babydoll on, and he inhales sharply when he forces himself to look properly in the mirror.

It’s so fucking sheer, Jesus. But it doesn’t look bad.

The top half where boobs would fill it out and underneath covering the ribcage is lined with lace and thin stripes.

Louis sees his body so clearly, and it’s doesn’t look as weird on him as he feared. And the colouring is nice, at least; it’s a light shade of a varying burgundy, and it contrasts with the nude of his thong, but it’s not a horrible mismatch.

It’s maybe, kind of cute.

Britney Spears starts singing at the other side of the room, and his heartbeat picks up at Harry’s signature ringtone.

He walks over, and picks it up.

“Hi,” Louis greets.

“You said you’d meet me in ten,” Harry says, “and it’s been twenty. You’re a filthy liar.”

“Um—” He brings a hand up to his mouth, pressing the nail of his thumb and index finger between his lips, against his teeth. “Could you, like … Can you come here, instead? To my room.”

Harry’s response is delayed. “Sure,” he answers. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Louis lies.

“No, you aren’t,” Harry counters, but it’s so calmly matter of fact; so direct. “See you in two.”

The line ends.

The panic sets in Louis’s throat. They’re on the same floor, separated by a few rooms, so, he has one minute to choose between hiding in the bathroom or under the covers. He’s already thinking this risk he’s taking with their friendship is a regret, and he has to inwardly avoid hating himself and feeling shame as he cracks the door to his room open for Harry to come in, then crawls under the sheets.

He has his back facing the door when he hears Harry’s footsteps in the hall reach his door, his knuckles tapping against the creaking door, and Harry softly calling, “Louis?”

“Hi,” Louis responds, quiet.

The door closes, and Harry comes around, crawling onto the bed until he’s lying next to Louis.

He looks warm in his white tank top and trackies; curls twice as defined from his shower and stray strands hanging in front of his face. Louis has the duvet covering up to almost his entire shoulder, but if Harry were to look close enough, he’d see the thin, red straps of his babydoll, and notice something different.

Louis wants him to notice.

“Hey, baby,” Harry says, voice just as soft as the look on his face.

Louis smiles.

It’s small, but he knows it fills his face. “Howdy, stranger.”

Harry’s smile widens, and he chuckles softly. He brings a hand to Louis’s forearm not tucked underneath the duvet, and gently rubs it with his palm. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

At the weird face Harry makes, he has to play it off with a light laugh.

“What?”

“You’re acting strange,” Harry comments.

“Huh,” Louis says, “so unlike me.”

Harry laughs at his dry tone, and trails his hand farther up Louis’s arm to his shoulder, and Louis’s heart starts to beat harder than it previously was. He can’t say anything nor move when Harry lifts himself up to draw the covers down to get underneath. He just keeps a sturdy grip on his end to keep himself covered, and holds his breath in his tight throat when Harry shuffles closer and wraps his arms around Louis to hold him against his chest.

Louis looks up.

Harry’s eyebrows and mouth twitch, confused, and he tilts his chin down at Louis.

“What are you wearing?” Harry asks. “It’s nice.”

He slides his hand down Louis’s back again, and Louis feels frozen in his hold; his heart is racing, warmth oozing from various directions in his core, locking him in with paralysed nerves. He has to take an unsteady breath before opening his mouth, looking away entirely to avoid Harry’s gaze.

“Um,” Louis hums, _hearing_ how shaky his voice is, “just—don’t make fun, okay?”

“I would never,” Harry says.

His tone is absolute, if a little confused.

Louis knows that, but he still needs to make that clear for his own sake.

Harry lets go as Louis moves back a few inches, and he pulls the trigger by carefully pulling his side of the duvet down and off his body, revealing his entire figure.

He watches Harry carefully: watches his mouth part at the new sight of Louis lying on his side in a sheer babydoll with a lace thong underneath, eyes widening and nostrils flaring. There’s something that grows in his eyes and entire face that Louis can’t decipher — maybe fascination? Awe? Admiration? He feels like he’s reaching, but there’s no repulsion, so, it can’t be too bad, whatever Harry’s feeling.

Louis gently falls back to lie flat, to ease the insecurity creeping into him.

“Louis,” Harry says immediately.

Louis turns his head.

Whenever Harry addresses him by his first name, it’s usually serious. There’s a darker look in his eyes, a slightly deeper change in his tone.

Louis swallows.

“What?”

Harry appears to struggle, lips parting then closing again and again.

“Wow,” he settles on.

Louis blinks.

“‘Wow?’” Louis echoes plainly.

Harry’s already shaking his head, briefly squeezing his eyes shut.

“No,” he backtracks, and meets Louis’s eyes, “I mean—wow. You look beautiful. Why are you . . . wearing all this?”

Louis’s cheeks burn.

He turns away from Harry, baring his backside to him, and doesn’t say a thing. But it doesn’t stop Harry from moving close to him, from throwing a leg over and pressing a hand into the mattress right in front of Louis’s face to loom above him on all fours.

“Do you mind?” Louis retorts, purposely still gazing ahead.

“Absolutely not.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Tell me,” Harry urges softly. “Or don’t, if it makes you uncomfortable. But I’d like to know.”

His fingers touch Louis’s warm cheek then, a tender caress with his knuckles, and Louis’s body eases, melting into the mattress. Harry always has his insides feeling so soft he may as well be floating on a cloud.

Louis covers the hand in front of his, gripping the edge of Harry’s palm.

“Do you _really_ want to know?”

“Only if you wish to tell me,” Harry says.

Louis sighs.

“Yes, or no, wanker,” he says.

“Love when you talk dirty to me,” Harry replies. “Yes, please.”

Louis inhales deeply, letting it sink its claws into his very core, then quietly clears his throat.

“I’m wearing this for you,” he mumbles under his breath.

Harry’s caresses pause, tips of his soft fingers pressing against Louis’s cheekbones, and Louis’s heart breaks out into a sweat at the following silence. The backs of his knees and his palms are overheating, but he doesn’t know how to get out from under Harry without exposing his vulnerability even more.

“Baby,” Harry murmurs then, and Louis’s insides are sweeter than candy, “look at me.”

Louis refuses.

But his innate instinct to do as Harry tells him overtakes him a couple seconds later, and he turns his head, looking up at him. Harry’s staring at him like he wants to devour Louis, gaze heavy, reflecting in every crevice of his features, and as much as it pokes hope into his heart with sharp sticks and fills him with a quiet reassurance that he’s not as stupid as he thought for doing this, it makes him even more shy.

“What?” Louis asks, dumbly.

“Tell me again,” Harry orders. “Louder. Why are you wearing this?”

Louis searches his gaze.

“For you,” he simply answers.

Harry trails his eyes down his face then body, and he’s still touching Louis’s face. He looks back up. “Is this because of our conversation the other week?”

Whatever colour that was dissipating in his cheeks now returns.

“Well,” Louis starts, and stutters, “no—maybe. I just—I just haven’t done this before, and—” He’s having a difficult time getting the words out; he knows what he wants to say, but it’s like all his thoughts clump together and he has no idea _what_ he’s attempting to communicate.

He just wants Harry to touch his waist.

A softness seeps into the heat of Harry’s eyes, and he moves his fingers to properly hold the entire left side of Louis’s face. “You don’t need to be nervous, baby,” he says. “Were you afraid I wouldn’t like this?”

Louis nods.

Harry looks at him, then presses his lower body against Louis’s thigh.

Louis inhales sharply.

His cock is hard against the side of Louis’s thigh, and Louis thinks he can get a feel of it _really_ well, which means Harry’s not wearing anything under his trackies, and that spikes a secret tender spot at the very bottom of his spine, shooting straight to his core and making the tip of his dick throb.

Jesus, when did he become so needy?

“Feel that?” Harry murmurs. “You’re beyond any wildest dream of mine; how could I not like this even a small bit? Every time I see your face, I have to hold myself back. You’re so bloody gorgeous that you make it easy to want you. Even now, it’s taking everything in me not to turn you over and take you right here.”

Louis stares at him with wide eyes and a racing heart, and he blinks.

“You’re holding it together pretty well,” is all he can think to say.

“Barely,” Harry replies.

He ducks down and kisses the corner of Louis’s mouth, and Louis uses the tiny burst of confidence to turn onto his back and press their lips together.

Harry goes with it eagerly; he cups both sides of Louis’s face, moving forward on his knees and hunching over, moving his lips against Louis’s in deep, fierce drags. Louis can barely breathe at first, trying to comprehend every move Harry’s committing and match it, and he gets the hang of it.

But it’s almost like he’s a starving dog and Louis’s his feast.

“Baby,” he whispers against Louis’s mouth, “tell me what you want me to do.”

“Touch me,” Louis whines softly.

Harry pulls back.

“Be specific,” he says, dragging his hand down to Louis’s sternum.

“I—” Louis doesn’t fucking know. He just wants Harry to take the reigns, do as he pleases, and give Louis something he can just as easily take away. “Just do whatever you want with me; I don’t care. I just want you all over me.”

Harry sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he stares at Louis.

“Whatever I want?” he echoes.

“Whatever,” Louis affirms.

“So, like . . . ,” Harry trails off, fingertips traveling farther down Louis’s chest to his stomach. Louis’s skin is sensitive, so, it tickles and leaves goosebumps down his arms and legs, and he keeps his eyes trained on the way Harry’s fingers drag to the top of his thighs where the babydoll ends. He shuffles backwards, and bends down to press his lips to the skin where the edge touches, mouth featherlight. “If I were to kiss you”—Harry moves the lingerie up just an inch to kiss closer to Louis’s hip— “all over . . . that wouldn’t be an issue?”

Louis swallows.

“No,” he says, almost a mumble.

Harry continues to kiss around that area, then he pushes it up more and kisses a trail of gentle, lingering kisses along his hip and towards his stomach. But once he reaches Louis’s ribs, he falls back to his hip, looking at Louis through his lashes.

“I still can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t love you like this,” he comments.

At this point, Louis’s blush is never going away.

“Well,” he mumbles.

“Look at you,” Harry continues, tone marvelled. “You’re absolutely _stunning_. I’m serious — look down at yourself.” Louis does, gazing at the thin material laying against his body, and the lace that covers his hips and cock. “I’m not even sure what I could say to fully encompass just the way you _are_. I wanna make a mess of you.”

“So do it,” Louis challenges.

They stare at each other, Louis’s heart beating in his ears.

Harry straightens himself and grabs Louis’s waist to turn him over in one, fluid motion. A little, surprised squeak escapes Louis at the sudden turn of events, and at feeling Harry tug the material of his thong out of his crack, kneading the meat of his arse.

He spreads his cheeks, and Louis feels his skin stretch from the exposure.

“Oh, my God,” he hears Harry softly groan. “You’re all smooth, baby, Christ.”

Louis hums.

He drags his legs up the bed some and arches his back, lifting his bum a few inches off the bed to properly display it to Harry, and what he gets in return is a loud, sharp smack to his left cheek, making him whimper and cock twitch, a patch of wetness soaking into his knicker.

“You like being spanked?” Harry asks.

Louis hums, holding back and biting the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah,” he breathes out on a shaky voice.

He wants to reach inside his knicker and touch himself so badly, but there’s a far more powerful side to him that wants to be a good boy for Harry and come only when Harry makes him.

Soft lips press a kiss to his warm skin.

“We’ll save that for another time, then,” Harry promises. “One thing at a time.”

Louis opens his mouth to ask him what that means, but a high pitched whine is ripped unexpectedly from him when he feels a wet tongue drag up his perineum to his hole, diving right in. Louis’s fingers tightly cling to the sheets as Harry licks the outer and inner skin, sucking and biting eagerly. He feels paralysed with overwhelming sensitivity, hanging his head. He can’t do anything, except let his mouth hang open on silent moans, eyes fluttering whenever Harry’s tongue presses deeply into some of his most tender spots, and whimper and push his arse against his face every time he slows down.

“Har—ry,” Louis says, voice breaking on the first syllable and eyes welling up.

As much as he’d like for this to send him over the edge, because it could if it’s not stopped, he wants the first time Harry makes him come to be while he’s got his cock buried in his arse.

“Angel,” Harry coos in response.

Louis pushes his head against the pillow.

“Please, fuck me,” he begs.

“Tell me what else made you wear this,” Harry says, taking his mouth away from Louis’s hole and replacing it with teasing fingers, “then I might.”

Louis whimpers pathetically.

“Nothing,” he lies.

Harry circles his hole, rubs it, or glides a finger over it, but never pushes in like he _knows_ Louis wants.

It’s driving Louis fucking _mad_.

“Tell me, baby,” Harry urges kindly.

He bites his bottom lip, keeping silent, and just when he contemplates opening his mouth, he feels the tip of Harry’s index finger nudge inside, and his whole body tenses. Thing is, Harry knows Louis too well; Louis isn’t so straight forward, or so daring, with such monumental things such as this, and Harry knows when he happens to be, it’s for more than one reason.

He’s just gonna keep pushing Louis’s buttons until he gives in.

But Louis’s already weak.

“No, the conversation wasn’t the sole reason,” he bites out when Harry’s finger is fully buried in his arse, unmoving.

“Hm, wasn’t it.”

“If you don’t start fingering me, I’m not gonna tell you shit,” Louis says.

That gets Harry laughing.

It’s a soft, joyous kind of sound that rings reassuringly in Louis’s chest, making the corners of his mouth twitch with a fleeting smile. But it’s forgotten as Harry languidly moves his finger in Louis. It’s not as dry as it would be because of the leftover saliva from his mouth, but there’s still a satisfying roughness to it.

“Bashful and shy, and quick to threaten,” Harry says, and Louis hears a smile in his voice. He feels Harry’s free hand against the side of his thigh, rubbing it in a gentle stroke. “You are the very love of my life.”

It’s so casually stated, but it makes Louis’s breastbone suffocate in heat.

“Shut up, knobhead,” he mumbles.

He lifts his head to look back, and Harry’s still smiling, eyes shining.

Louis’s so in love with him.

“I tell you that often, and you like it, but when I say it during sex—”

“I’m wearing this because I’ve, also, wanted you to fuck me in something like this for _ages_ ,” Louis interrupts him, “okay? Jesus.”

Harry doesn’t say anything.

He keeps fingering Louis at a slow pace, but it gradually picks up, Louis whining into the pillow. Harry teases spots where he’s most sensitive, either brushing them slightly, or passing them altogether, and, eventually, he carefully sneaks his middle finger in. It’s a rougher slide, a tough stretch, but it feels so fucking good.

“How long?” Harry asks, suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“How long have you wanted me to fuck you?” Harry clarifies.

Louis moans at the deep thrust of his fingers, arching his back, and stalls a little. “D’know,” he says. “Few years, probably.”

“You know,” Harry begins, fingering at a faster pace now, “you could’ve shown up at my door at any time and asked me to, and I would’ve happily done it, no questions asked. You didn’t need to wait for an opening, baby.”

“I—needed the push,” Louis admits.

Harry takes his fingers out, and then Louis’s being pushed onto his back.

He crawls up Louis’s body to hover over him, and Louis spreads his legs wider in desperation for something to fucking fill his hole again. It’s achingly and uncomfortably empty, and the line of Harry’s cock in his trackies is so prominent, now, it makes him whine a little. He wants Harry to tear him apart with it. He’d normally tell himself to get a grip, but it’s really difficult right now, and because he just doesn’t care anymore. He’d get on his knees and beg, if he had to.

Harry appears to sense that, by the telling way he looks at Louis and drags his eyes down his figure, then gripping his cock through his trackies.

Jesus Christ.

Louis takes the initiative to reach forward and try to pull it down, but his hands are gently smacked away.

“Behave, baby,” Harry says. Louis’s dick twitches. “Do you have any lube?”

“It’s in my bag,” Louis tells him.

Harry moves away from him and off the bed, walking over to Louis’ bag still open and a bit disorganised from earlier, and begins to search. Louis realises too late, then, that he didn’t put back the knickers that had fallen out when they accidentally came out with one he currently has on, and they’re laying on top of his boxers off to the side.

Harry’s fingers drift to them, picking up the black palm tree lace pair.

“Um,” Louis says.

Harry turns back to Louis, eyebrows raised and mouth parted, thong unfolded in his hands.

Louis sighs.

“Look,” he continues, defeated, “when a sign tells you that if you buy three pairs of something that you’ll get _another_ three free, it’s kind of an unspoken rule that you _have to_ buy it.”

Harry smiles, slightly shaking his head. “I think that’s just you, angel.”

“I don’t think it is,” Louis argues.

Harry hums.

He stares at the thong in his hands, and Louis’s about to pitch a fucking fit if he doesn’t get his arse moving and fuck him _today_ , but Harry folds it and lays it where he found it to return searching for the lube. He crawls back onto the bed and over Louis after, and then tugs his clothing off.

Louis bites his lip as he stares at Harry’s cock.

It’s very thick, and even longer when it’s hard, its head a patchy, rosy colour, stiff and curved, and, shit, Louis can’t fucking _think_.

He just wants it in him.

“Hands and knees, or back, baby?” Harry asks.

Louis tears his eyes away.

“Knees,” he answers without thinking, turning himself over to get into that exact position, curving his spine and arching his bum while keeping his head low.

“Fucking Christ,” he hears Harry swear quietly.

Louis smirks.

“You good?” he asks innocently.

“Fine,” Harry answers.

Louis chuckles silently to himself, pressing his lips together in a smile, and listens to him opening the bottle. It’s a few moments before Louis feels anything, and when he does, it’s to Harry rubbing his cock against his hole. He bites his lip, spreading his legs even farther, and has to avoid thinking about his hard, leaking cock in his knicker. He’s going to end up caving and touching himself if he does, and he wants to last.

Harry pushes the head in.

Louis mewls, tightening his grip on the sheets beneath him.

“Good, baby?”

“Mhm,” Louis hums brokenly.

Harry continues to push the rest in, and it’s such a fucking _stretch_ after being celibate for a long time; it fills him up in a way he had almost forgotten; it hurts him in the best way. He has to take a few deep breaths until Harry bottoms out, and then when he adjusts to the feeling, he chooses to move his hips in a slight figure eight motion.

Harry groans.

“Baby, please,” he says, placing his hands on Louis’s hips and squeezing.

“Whoops,” Louis says unapologetically, smiling.

Harry huffs out a light, amused breath, leaning forward then to press a gentle kiss to Louis’s upper back. He starts slow; they’re shallow thrusts the first few times, then once there’s _something_ he fucks into Louis with his entire length, dragging it against his walls for him to feel every fucking bit of it.

Louis bites his pillow, moaning and whining as the white heat in his pelvic area increases.

It becomes worse, like he’s hanging onto a rapidly weakening vine against a wall, as Harry’s rhythm speeds up and he brushes against the same sensitive areas as earlier before directly hitting them and making Louis arch his back farther in a long moan, mind encompassing only the feeling of Harry’s cock bruising him and filling him hotly. He hears Harry breathing heavily and his own quiet moans and grunts falling from his mouth.

He feels himself slipping two minutes later.

Then, with absolutely no warning, Louis’s spilling in his knickers.

It’s warm and in short spurts, leaving his head and cock in a heady headspace. Harry continues to fuck him through it, even as he feels his hole clench tightly around his cock. Louis feels like he’s still coming even when he’s unable to produce anything else, wiping his teary eyes on the same pillow he was just roughly biting into.

Harry pulls out, leaving him feeling too stretched and empty.

He shifts his bum, trying to adjust to being empty after being fucked, and listens to the sounds of Harry working his hand over himself, moaning as he releases his come all over Louis’s arse.

Louis can’t be mad when he specifically dared Harry to make a mess.

“Are y’all right, Louis?” he asks then, sounding breathless and rough.

Louis sighs softly.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. He pulls a face when Harry wipes his arse with the duvet, and rolls over onto his back. “Seriously?”

Harry shrugs.

Cheeks red, eyes a richer green with a dreamy, glimmer coating, and lips a shade of that only comes from gnawing them — he looks as how Louis feels. He crawls over to lie beside Louis, wrapping an arm around Louis’s waist.

“I’m too lazy to get up,” he says.

He then kisses Louis’s cheeks, and pulls him against his chest.

Louis scoffs, warmth blossoming in his core and traveling throughout the nerves attached to his heart; they trickle in clumps to his legs, feet, toes, and up in his arms, head, back of his mind. But the generator is stationed in his chest, pumping and fueling it.

He lets the minutes pass in silence, but he breaks it when he can’t stop shifting his legs.

He digs his chin into Harry’s hard chest, looking up at him with purposely soft, big eyes. “Do you wanna go again?” he asks.

Harry’s raises a brow. “ _Again_?” he says.

Louis’s cheeks burn.

“This time, I wanna wear the black lace ones that you saw earlier,” Louis tells him.

A beat passes.

“The one with the strappy waist?”

Louis smiles at Harry’s interested tone an the spark in his eyes. “Yes,” he answers, trailing fingers from his chest to his stomach.

“Go change into it.”

Louis kisses him, pulls away, and climbs off the climb to get to his bag.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment & kudos! & don’t be shy to bombard me with messages on cc & tumblr...I love both. | [tumblr](http://tllthesundies.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/tiIthesundies) | [post](https://tllthesundies.tumblr.com/post/184760414502/burnt-tied-up-by-tilthesundies-rating-explicit)


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